


And There's Not a Cloud in the Sky

by lotherington



Series: Long Ago and Far Away [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1940s, AU, Historical, M/M, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘Yes, spare me trivial details, what do you already know?’ Sherlock pivoted and shone his torch in Lestrade’s face, who squinted and backed away from the light. ‘Or think you know, sorry,’ he said, illuminating the barrels and crates in the cellar rather than Lestrade’s nasal hair.</i>
</p><p>WWII AU. November, 1944. For the first time in years, Sherlock and John have a case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And There's Not a Cloud in the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [There's a Land of Begin Again](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bEoNdMVD_p0).

_November, 1944._

It was late November. For the first time in somewhere near four years, Sherlock and John had a case, one that Sherlock had taken leave specifically for. There’d been a rather gruesome murder that hadn’t been the direct result of the war, and, at a loss, Lestrade had called in on John, who’d got in touch with Sherlock, who, after hearing the details of the case, had caught a train down to London the very next day.

John met Sherlock at Euston on Saturday morning.

‘Doctor Watson,’ Sherlock said with a smile as he stepped off the train, pulling his gloves on. 

‘Mr. Holmes.’ John grinned and took Sherlock’s hand, squeezing. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said quietly, the other people on the platform too busy to pay them any mind.

‘And I you,’ Sherlock replied, touching John’s shoulder fleetingly. ‘Lestrade missed me too, has he?’ he asked as they began to walk towards the station’s exit in order to catch the overground from Euston Square.

‘Oh, you could say that.’ John smiled, his stick clicking against the pavement as they stepped out of the doors. ‘I can’t tell you how relieved he sounded when I telephoned to let him know you’d taken leave.’

They walked together in silence for a few minutes, the traffic and the crunching sounds of fallen leaves underfoot the only noise.

Sherlock smiled to himself as they rounded the corner, walking into the station and joining the queue for a ticket each. ‘Almost like old times, isn’t it?’ he said as they reached the head of the queue. ‘Only with ruddy sandbags everywhere...’

‘And the rockets and the blackout and the rationing...’ John stepped forwards to talk to the ticket officer. ‘Two to New Cross Gate, please.’

‘Yes, but the sandbags do smell so awful,’ Sherlock replied as John’s money was exchanged for a ticket each, spinning on his heel and leading the way to the platform for the eastbound Metropolitan and District line. 

John smiled, and, as ever, followed.

***

‘I have a number of theories,’ Sherlock said, standing and hanging on to the overhead bar in their carriage, talking over John’s head to his own reflection in the carriage window as the train lurched on to East London.

‘Such as?’ John prompted, looking up at Sherlock. He was seated, a factory girl having given up her seat for him after noticing his walking stick. He had originally attempted to refuse, but Sherlock had forcibly pushed him to sit down and that had been the end of the matter.

‘No, most of them are far too ridiculous,’ Sherlock murmured, his eyes moving from side to side as he gestured into the air between him and John with his left hand, clearly attempting to separate and organise the facts in his head.

‘Stabbed, Lestrade said.’

‘Yes, with a screwdriver.’

A young woman tightened her grip on her son’s hand and looked at John and Sherlock, seemingly horrified.

‘And then scalped...’

‘Yes.’ John cleared his throat and dropped his voice after catching the young woman’s eye. ‘Keep your voice down.’

‘Stabbed and then scalped and left in the cellar of the pub, fascinating...’

Sherlock continued much in the same vein for the remainder of the journey. Their stop took a while to reach but eventually they arrived at New Cross Gate, Sherlock jumping out onto the platform and just about managing to wait for John to make his somewhat more faltering way down.

‘We’re meeting at the pub, Lestrade said?’ Sherlock asked, already striding towards the exit of the station. John hurried to catch up.

‘Yes, they’re opening up for us,’ he said, straightening his hat as Sherlock pulled his gloves on again. 

‘Excellent. Shame the evidence won’t be fresh.’

‘Sherlock, they could hardly fly you in from Bletchley,’ John said with a brief roll of his eyes, following Sherlock out onto the main road.

‘More’s the pity. How’s your leg?’

‘You know there’s nothing wrong with my leg.’

‘Well, forgive my concern--’

‘Oh, shut up, you sod.’ John sighed and fixed Sherlock with a look that turned into a smile.

It was a Saturday morning and the street was filled with people going in and out of the shops that lined the main road. A tram whirred past as John and Sherlock crossed the road, Sherlock leading. 

‘The King’s Arms, this pub’s called,’ Sherlock said, adjusting his hat. ‘From looking at the map it should be just up on the left some-- aha!’ He grinned as he caught sight of Lestrade, looking world-weary and haggard as ever, leaning against the pub door about twenty feet away.

‘Sherlock,’ he said with a warm smile, straightening up and offering his hand. ‘Good to see you.’

‘Yes, likewise,’ Sherlock muttered, looking almost embarrassed as he shook Lestrade’s hand.

‘Right then.’ Lestrade removed his hat and pushed the door open. ‘All yours, detective.’

‘I suppose I can’t hope you’ve left me the body?’ Sherlock ducked under the doorframe and made his way down the narrow staircase, flicking his torch on.

‘No, it’s at Barts,’ Lestrade called after Sherlock, exchanging a look with John before they both walked down into the cellar as well. ‘Wasn’t originally my case but we’re rather stretched for manpower at the moment and they’ve sent me over here--’

‘Yes, spare me trivial details, what do you already know?’ Sherlock pivoted and shone his torch in Lestrade’s face, who squinted and backed away from the light. ‘Or think you know, sorry,’ he said, illuminating the barrels and crates in the cellar rather than Lestrade’s nasal hair.

‘Uh, let’s see.’ Lestrade blinked a couple of times and pulled his notebook and own torch out of his pocket, clicking it on to read his notes. ‘He was discovered by the landlord’s daughter two nights ago when she came down to change one of the barrels. We questioned her and didn’t have anything to be suspicious about--’

‘I’ll need to interview her myself.’

‘Thought you’d say that. She’s working today, upstairs. I want you to have John with you.’

‘I’ll talk to her later,’ Sherlock said, ignoring Lestrade’s instruction. ‘John, come here.’

John walked over to where Sherlock was shining his torch at one of the beams of the cellar roof. ‘Blood?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Looks to be.’ John squinted at it and touched the tip of his finger to the stain.

‘Hmm.’ Sherlock stepped into a corner of the room and held his torch up high to illuminate as much as possible as he looked round. Along with storing the pub’s stock, the cellar also seemed to serve as an air raid shelter, with a bunk bed resting against one wall and a low table with a game of snakes and ladders laid out next to it. Mugs hung on nails in the brick wall and a knitting bag sat in a lumpy-looking chair.

‘Do you want to hear the rest of this?’ Lestrade asked, waving his notebook.

‘No. Have there been any raids in the area recently?’ Sherlock swooped to crouch down next the the board game, peering intently at the counters. He lifted up one half of the board itself and raised his eyebrows.

‘I’d have to check, I haven’t been over this way--’

‘Just get someone on it,’ Sherlock said, jumping up. ‘John, you and I need to go shopping.’

‘And what am I supposed to do?’ Lestrade said, incredulous.

‘Go back to Barts and make sure I’ll have access to that body. And let the girl know I’ll be up to interview her this afternoon.’ He jumped halfway up the rickety staircase. ‘Come along, John!’

***

‘Remember, wooden handle, single bit, straighter edge than usual,’ Sherlock said as they reached the main stretch of shops again. ‘Couldn’t be anything else from the bloodstain on that beam back there and the damage on the underside of the board game.’ He grinned, eyes alight with the thrill of the game being on again. ‘Hopefully one will still be in stock, the axe was definitely new, but I heard on the train here that some people were going to Woolworth’s to queue for saucepans - can you imagine?’ Sherlock muttered as they walked.

‘What exactly are you going to do with this axe, should we get one?’ John asked, hand curled around his stick.

‘Experiment.’ Sherlock stared at John as though that was incredibly obvious. ‘Lestrade will obviously let me have a look at the body and I can inspect the pattern on the skull in relation to the weapon that carried out the scalping, which is most likely at the bottom of the Thames by now.’ He grinned again. ‘Hence our need to find one. I’ll meet you back here in an hour, you go that way and I’ll go this.’

John checked his watch. Half past eleven. ‘Back here at half past twelve, then?’ 

Sherlock clapped him on his good shoulder. ‘Half past twelve.’

And with that, coattails sweeping behind him, Sherlock vanished into the crowd.

***

By quarter past, John had managed to find an axe that appeared to match Sherlock’s specifications and had also managed to convince the owner of the ironmonger’s to send the thing on to Baker Street that afternoon, owing to the elderly man’s reluctance to hand over a very sharp axe to someone he didn’t know from Adam. John had also asked the man about others who’d bought the axe before him, under the guise of getting a review as to what it was like for chopping firewood. None of the information the ironmonger gave him jumped out as important, however, and John resolved to take Sherlock back there after meeting back up with him so that he could ask some more pertinent questions.

Satisfied with a job well done, John began to walk back to the spot where his and Sherlock’s paths had diverted, despite it being earlier than they’d said. After five minutes of walking at his own slow pace rather than trying to keep up with Sherlock, he found a bench near enough to where they’d agreed to meet, sitting down and stretching his leg out. 

He looked skywards. The day was clear and probably as nice as November was ever going to get. John massaged his thigh discreetly as he watched a bird dive to land on the awning of a greengrocer’s, smiling at the funny waddling walk it had across the red and white striped material.

Checking his watch (twenty-five past twelve), John glanced up and smiled when he saw Sherlock walking towards him. He was a distance away yet but his stride and coat were unmistakable amongst the crowd against the backdrop of the row of shops. John stood and held his hand up to attract Sherlock’s attention, waving.

He dropped his hand and glanced upwards again. The sky was blue.

Everything that happened next happened so quickly that John was powerless to react.

Two loud crunches sounded, one immediately after the other. The walls of Woolworth’s bowed. The building collapsed in on itself and then exploded outwards, a roaring wall of noise screaming its way towards John, who watched, transfixed and useless, utterly helpless, as Sherlock’s body was thrown high into the air, back curved in a graceful arc for a moment that seemed suspended in time until his body landed, shrapnel raining down around it, in a heap where the road had once been.

**Author's Note:**

> The V2 bombing incident described here is unfortunately very real; more information can be found [here](http://www.woolworthsmuseum.co.uk/1940s-remembernewcross.htm) and [here](http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/ww2peopleswar/stories/16/a5784816.shtml).


End file.
